Palm Sunday

the zipper has plans.
to undo what has begun
takes a careful seamstress,
a weaver of stars,
a diorama.
tonight the ties talk,
exchange numbers.
the stockings inch close -
caress the whalebone stitch.
the breasts, hidden
under palms,
long for diamonds.
legs part posies,
slick skinned
weasels under wire.
the mouth
forms an "o" -
escape for
feathered prey
like mistake or
"we should not.”
the cuff links
stay forgotten
beside the bed.
the sofa, a gilded swan,
glides with us,
posed as we are,
like mannequins
of so many beautiful things.